


and from the darkness we have light

by glitteratiglue



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Reminiscing, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:25:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5483288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteratiglue/pseuds/glitteratiglue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This Christmas, Steve's got Bucky back, and he can’t think of a better reason to celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and from the darkness we have light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evieeden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evieeden/gifts).



> Title from Sussex Carol, which seemed appropriate for this time of year.

Back in the day, Steve never liked winter much. Winter meant a string of illnesses for him — if he was really unlucky, maybe a hospital stay — and long days in bed, with nothing to do but read and sketch and feel like a burden.

Bucky would always brush it off anytime Steve worried about not contributing during those long spells of illness. “C’mon, Steve,” he’d say, shoving on his boots, ready to brave the deep New York snow for work. “One of us has gotta have this place all nice and warm for when I come back.”

And at least that was true. By evening, Steve would usually drag himself out of bed long enough to make soup or hot cocoa — something warm for when Bucky got in, shivering from head to toe. They’d curl up in front of the stove, blankets tucked over their legs and hands wrapped around their mugs, letting the steam warm their faces. Sometimes they pushed their chairs close together and Steve would curl up with his feet in Bucky’s lap. For him, it was the best thing about cold nights.

With the serum, Steve’s a lot hardier in the face of a blizzard, but he doesn’t care much for snow. Though it’s been almost three years since he came out of the ice, some days he still feels like he can’t get warm. He cranks up the heating, piles on sweaters and tucks an electric blanket over his legs when he sits on the couch, trying to chase away the bone-deep chill that’s partly psychological and partly a result of spending decades knowing nothing but cold.

* * *

“Looks like a white Christmas,” Natasha remarks during their annual Avengers Secret Santa gift exchange. She shows Steve the weather forecast on her phone.

Steve frowns. “It’s only December twentieth,” he points out. “That could change.”

Natasha sighs, shaking her head.

“Okay then, Scrooge,” Tony says, baffled. He taps Steve on the shoulder with his new selfie stick. “I guess you get a free pass on hating winter, being the human popsicle and all.”

When Steve opens his package, he finds thermal socks in a fetching shade of purple (Clint, he guesses). He wears them in bed, and they keep him a little warmer.

* * *

The past two Christmases, Steve hadn’t really been in the holiday mood. He’d gone to Tony’s annual Chrismahanukwanzakah parties at the Tower, stood with a drink in his hand feeling like a fish out of water. The lights were garish and the music too loud. Both times, he'd ended up in a corner with Natasha while she downed martinis and gave him the lowdown on various party guests.

But this Christmas, Steve's got Bucky back, and he can’t think of a better reason to celebrate.

It was April when Steve got out of the hospital, and October when Bucky came back to him. The leaves were falling on the stoop outside Steve’s new Brooklyn Heights apartment, shades of brilliant red and spun gold, burnt orange and sunset yellow. Steve drew them. He hadn’t drawn since the Battle of New York, but whenever he had a spare moment, he sat there by his windowsill, sketching the leaves, capturing the close of the season.

One day, he'd looked up from his sketchbook to find Bucky standing there: no ceremony, no speech, just  _there_. Bucky was shaking, fear in his eyes, like he was afraid Steve would turn him away. Then Steve had realised Bucky was shivering from the cold. He'd brought him inside, given him a blanket to tuck around his shoulders and made two cups of cocoa, just like the old days. They didn’t talk much that night, but Bucky said enough for Steve to know that it was still him.

Slowly, Bucky’s coming back to himself. He’s been seeing a very expensive therapist at the tower; he always returns from the sessions drained and hollow-eyed, but over time, he’s started to smile and laugh, to remember things, and doesn’t flinch away from touch the way he once did. This Bucky is different, not as outgoing as the easy, charming boy who went off to war all those years ago. He’s friendly enough to the others whenever they stop by the tower, but he keeps declining Fury’s offer to join the Avengers. Steve respects Bucky’s decision — his years with HYDRA have surely earned him as much time to bake and watch Netflix as he damn well wants — but it doesn’t stop him wishing Bucky would change his mind.

Another thing: Bucky’s quieter than he used to be. Sometimes, Steve misses the Bucky who wore his heart on his sleeve and filled every silence with mindless chatter. Often, Steve wants to ask him what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t; he’s got no right to have anything of Bucky unless he freely gives it. He knows how hard Bucky's trying.

* * *

Steve’s determined to make a special effort this Christmas.

He orders a nice custom wrought-iron tree stand on Etsy, goes out and gets a nine-foot Douglas fir and decks it out with lights and tinsel and baubles. It practically touches the ceiling, and maybe it’s a little much, but Steve figures if you’re going to do Christmas, you can’t do it half-assed.

Bucky comes in when it’s finished, says, “It’s nice, Steve.” He pauses. “I remember those little trees we used to get. They sure grow ‘em big these days.”

“We used to talk about having a big tree like this,” Steve says.

“Could never afford one, though.” Bucky stares at the tree, a soft smile playing on his face in the glow of the fairy lights. “Wouldn’t have fit in the living room anyway.”

Steve’s stomach does a somersault; he has to look away.

He remembers heading out with Bucky to the market to get whatever tree was going cheap, wheezing with every step as the cold air hit his lungs. They’d always spend Christmas Day with Bucky’s family, at the raucous Barnes kitchen table with too many chairs jammed around it, and Bucky’s sisters teasing Steve about which one of them was going to take him out first. But Steve and Bucky still liked to have a small tree up in their apartment for the holiday season; it was nice to celebrate in their own way. It was usually a shabby affair, hung with cast-off ornaments donated from the Barnes family stock, but one year, Steve had managed to rig up some lights. They’d felt like the kings of all creation, sitting there in the faint glimmer of their tree, hot cocoa in hand.

Back then, the most special part of their tree was always a tiny glass angel, edged with gold. She’d belonged to Steve’s mother — one of the only things he had left of her — and Bucky had always made a big deal about leaving that one until last, saying it deserved respect. And if Steve’s eyes were wet when he reached up to carefully hang it on the tree, Bucky would pretend not to notice. Afterwards, he’d put his arm around Steve, and Steve would feel like he was home — not the bricks and mortar of their dwelling, but Bucky. Bucky was home.

Bucky _is_ home. Never in a million years could Steve have imagined this, and despite everything the years have cost them, he wouldn’t change it for a second (sometimes Steve feels terribly selfish for thinking it, considering the hell Bucky had to go through to get to the future).

* * *

Two days before Christmas, Steve is sketching when Bucky comes in and dumps an enormous turkey on the table. It looks like it could feed eighteen people.

“It’s all free-range organic, raised on a farm upstate,” Bucky says proudly, gesturing to the huge bird. “Ordered it online weeks ago.”

Steve snorts. “We having the whole city over for dinner, Buck?” He can’t help but feel fuzzily warm at the idea Bucky’s been thinking about Christmas too, that he’s been _planning._

Bucky waves a hand dismissively, and says, “I know how you eat. Anyway, you’re gonna cook it.”

“Fine, but I don’t know if it’ll even fit in our oven.” Steve puts down his pencil and lifts the turkey; it’s about as heavy as a baby, to his reckoning.

With some rearranging, they manage to jam it into the refrigerator. Bucky looks pleased with himself for the rest of the day, and Steve finds it hard not to smile whenever he looks at him.

That night, it snows.

* * *

Steve wakes up on Christmas Eve morning to frost-coated bedroom windows and several inches of snow on the ground. He shrugs into his fleecy robe and goes to turn the thermostat up, shivering.

Bucky’s not there, but he’s left a note: _Got a mission. See you later._

Steve assumes Bucky means an errand — he likes to call them missions instead, his little joke (he reasons it can only be a good thing that Bucky’s making jokes again). He’s looking forward to a relaxing morning: even Avengers aren’t needed in the holidays, barring some world-ending crisis.

Their kitchen’s full of Christmas food; Steve trips over a box of organic potatoes on his way to the coffeemaker. He thinks Bucky is probably overdoing it a little: he’s been baking for days and filled the freezer with all kinds of goodies, and there are no less than four hams in the pantry. Holiday preparations seem to have brought out another side of Bucky: his old determination to have a good time in any situation.

Christmas 1942, Bucky had managed to get himself, Steve and the Commandos invited to a local farmhouse for dinner. He’d even somehow gotten hold of a couple of extra geese (Steve never asked how, and he didn’t want to know). They’d crowded round the table, the wine flowing, laughing at Dugan’s terrible attempts to speak French and trying to understand the rapid-fire conversation Dernier was having with their kind hosts. God knows what they'd thought about a crowd of loud-mouthed soldiers eating them out of house and home, but Steve remembers it fondly to this day.

He's on his third cup of coffee and is just finishing some eggs and toast when Bucky walks in. His nose is red from the cold, and snowflakes have settled in his hair.

“Hey,” Bucky says, pulling off his coat and throwing it over the nearest chair. “It’s starting to come down hard out there.”

“Guess we’ll have to stay in then,” Steve says, grinning. He eats his last forkful of egg, and Bucky grabs a mug and pours himself some coffee, coming to sit next to Steve at the table.

Bucky looks up at Steve, and there’s a familiar smile on his face, with the hint of mischief that only comes from having a secret.

He sips his coffee and says, “Got you a present.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t we agree no presents?” They’d decided not to give gifts this year; they already have everything they need — everything that’s important, anyway. “And it’s not Christmas yet.”

“This one can’t wait.” Bucky puts down his coffee mug, and his eyes are shining. Slowly, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small cardboard box. He hands it to Steve, watching him carefully.

Steve opens it with care, peels back the layers of tissue paper to find a tiny glass ornament. It’s his mother’s angel; though it’s been seventy years, Steve would know it anywhere. He’s overcome.

“Buck,” he says, his voice thick. He hopes he isn’t crying; it’s not often he thinks of his mother these days, but the loss is still sharp, tinged with the joy of having this small piece of her. “How did you —“

“Wasn’t easy,” Bucky says. “Went to the Smithsonian first. They didn't know much, but they got me in touch with a few auction houses. Tracked it through a few private collectors until I found the one who had it. I’m amazed it was still in one piece. She’s taken a few knocks over the years, I think.”

Steve takes out the angel and studies it — some of the gold paint has chipped off the halo, and a wing tip is missing. Not that it matters.

“She’s perfect," he finally says. He puts the ornament down and stares at Bucky, so many words on the tip of his tongue, but all he manages is: “Thank you.”

Bucky’s smile is natural, and so tender it pulls at something inside Steve. He’s reminded of all the other things he used to think about, before the war took everything from them: the way he always stared at Bucky when he thought he wasn’t looking, the stirring of heat in his body whenever Bucky put an arm around him and pressed close to him, the small white scar on Bucky’s chest he got in a fight with the O’Donnell brothers when they were twelve. He hasn't seen Bucky without a shirt on since 1945.

A touch on his knuckles makes him jump. “Steve?” Bucky’s voice is quiet.

Steve’s heart is clenching tight, the blood squeezing through his veins beat by shattered beat. He gets to his feet, turning away, a blush rising up his face, because he _can’t_ look at Bucky, not now. If Bucky sees him, he’ll know, he’ll know — everything, and Steve doesn’t want to pressure him. The last thing he wants is for Bucky to feel like he owes him a damn thing.

He doesn’t hear a sound, not the scratch of a chair on the floor or the movement of feet, but suddenly, Bucky is there. Bucky is right in his space, tipping Steve’s chin up with one hand, and metal fingers are on his shoulder, pulling him in.

There are tiny breaths escaping Steve, erratic and shallow, and _God_ , Bucky’s looking at him like he’s Christmas, like he’s the best, brightest thing in the world. He can’t move a muscle.

“You gonna kiss me or what?” Bucky says roughly.

Steve makes a strangled sound in his throat, but it’s cut off by Bucky’s mouth, warm and wet and tasting of coffee. Two-day-old stubble scrapes his cheeks, and somehow his hands are on Bucky's back, drawing him closer. Bucky licks into his mouth and pleasure bursts behind Steve’s eyes, heat flooding his body.

He grabs a fistful of Bucky’s t-shirt, maneuvers them both out of the way of the table and starts to walk him backwards. Bucky makes a soft sound of surprise, but he lets Steve manhandle him. They stumble over the box of potatoes on the way to the door (idly, Steve thinks he really should move it) and laugh before Steve slams Bucky into the panelled wood, kisses him again with renewed fervour.

When he pulls back, Bucky is breathing heavily, lips red and swollen from kissing. “God, Bucky,” Steve says, a note of gravel making its way into his voice, “the things I wanna do to you.”

“So do ‘em,” Bucky says, with one of his trademark lazy grins. He puts his hands on Steve’s waist, warm fingers slipping underneath his t-shirt, parting the robe and letting it fall from Steve's shoulders.

And Steve wants to, but —

“Are you sure, though? Feel like I’d be taking advantage.”

Bucky huffs, and plants a wet, deep kiss on Steve for his trouble. “If you call finally kissing your best friend who’s crazy about you _taking advantage_ , then yeah. You totally are.”

Steve runs his hands down Bucky’s chest, yanks at the hem of his t-shirt. “Crazy about me, was it? That what you said?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. His cheeks are a little pink. “Don’t make me say it again.”

He raises his arms and lets Steve remove his shirt, and then it’s all hasty, ungraceful movements to get as much skin as possible on show (thankfully, Steve had set the thermostat on high earlier). It doesn't take long before Steve has Bucky completely bare-assed naked and standing on the kitchen tile. Bucky tries to stealthily tug Steve's pants down, but Steve swats his hand away; the floor is cold, and if he's going to be on his knees, he'd rather they be covered with something.

He wastes no time in getting on his knees and taking Bucky's cock into his mouth, one hand steadied on his hip.

Bucky moans, one hand coming off the wall to press at Steve’s shoulder. Steve looks up at him, chest heaving, face flushed, and he’s struck by how beautiful Bucky is, how _brave_ he is.

He tightens his lips around Bucky's dick, sucks at him until he's trembling head-to-toe, holding onto Steve's shoulder for dear life.

“Please, Steve, I’m gonna —”

With one flick of Steve’s tongue, Bucky is coming down his throat in hot spurts. He cries out _“Steve,”_ all low and wrecked, and Steve’s been wanting this for long enough that he goes off like a rocket then and there, right in his pants.

Bucky’s legs are still shaking when Steve licks him clean, draws back.

“Always wanted to do that,” Steve says, and grins.

Bucky’s got a hand over his eyes. “Jesus, that was kind of embarrassingly fast. I’m thirteen again.” He looks down to see the dark stain spreading across the front of Steve’s pants. Bucky laughs, and Steve can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed.

Steve noses at the crease where Bucky’s thigh meets his groin and murmurs, “Bet I can make you come again.”

The metal fingers grab at his hair, then Bucky’s hauling Steve to his feet, throwing him over his shoulder like he’s a rag doll (it’s kind of ridiculously hot, is Steve’s fleeting thought). He takes him to his bedroom and drops him on the bed, reaching up to tug down Steve’s pants in one smooth movement. Steve's shirt follows, joining his pants on the floor, and then there's nothing in the way of Bucky's heated gaze on his skin.

Steve doesn’t know what to do with himself; he’s already hard again, his entire body thrumming with need. He’s lying on sheets that smell like Bucky, and Bucky is pressing kisses to his ankles, the inside of his thigh, his hip.

Before he can think, Bucky’s taken him right to the back of his throat. Steve lets out a noise that’s barely human, flattens his hands out on the sheets. He’s never felt anything so good in his life, and Bucky is doing something _amazing_ with his tongue, and —

Just like that, Steve comes, arching off the bed, hips jerking as he spills into Bucky's mouth. Bucky swallows him back, his flesh hand stroking at Steve’s belly all the while, soothing him down.

“Oh,” Steve says; he feels like he’s floating, fairy lights sparking under his skin.

Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiles. “Merry Christmas, Steve.”

And Steve starts to laugh, the sound bursting from his throat, and he doesn’t stop until his ribs start aching. Bucky joins in and ends up face down on the sheets, shaking with mirth.

“You sure can pick your moments, Buck,” Steve says. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

Still breathless from laughter, Bucky leans in and kisses him; he tastes bitter, but the kiss is sweet and heartfelt. It makes Steve feel warm inside.

“We’re home, aren’t we?” Steve says, moving his arm so Bucky can snuggle into his side.

“Yeah, Steve.” Bucky reaches down to twine his metal fingers with Steve’s. “You’re my home. None of this matters without you.”

“This wasn’t a home without you here,” Steve confesses, the words bubbling up inside him. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without you, either.”

“I know. Let’s go hang that angel on the top of the tree,” Bucky says, leaning in to bite at Steve’s chest in a way that’s entirely distracting.

“Later.” Steve runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, rakes fingers over his scalp. “I’ve got plans. I did say I’d make you come again, and I’m a man who keeps his promises.”

“You did, huh?” Bucky pretends to consider though his hand is already sliding down Steve’s body, intent on its destination. “Well, a promise is a promise.”

Outside, the snow keeps on falling, but Steve has Bucky to keep him warm; it’s the best gift he could ever ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy festive season to everyone, whatever you celebrate! And to anyone who reads my stuff: thank you for all the reading, commenting and kudosing; I'm always constantly amazed by how wonderful you all are. Warm hugs to you guys <3.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://glitteratiglue.tumblr.com).


End file.
